


la tu kaza. parte viii

by r_foudroye



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Seine, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, im sorry about this one y'all it's kind of a big ouch, no im joking it's because there's a bit of swearing, rated teen for Trauma (tm)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-16 03:29:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29818767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/r_foudroye/pseuds/r_foudroye
Summary: read this alongside "un arbol de almendra" if you want context
Relationships: Javert/Jean Valjean
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2





	la tu kaza. parte viii

**Author's Note:**

> warnings:   
> \- knives (implied) (like they're never mentioned by name and nothing is ever done with them but they are implied to be there and their presence doesn't help javert's mental wellbeing at this moment)  
> \- past su1c1dal thoughts  
> \- something similar enough to a panic attack

On the day before the first night of Pesach, Javert awoke trembling.   
Valjean was nowhere to be found and the river rushed in his ears and outside the house and crawled up his ankles and calves and-   
_Shit. shit, shit. shit._  
Javert turned his head and his thoughts from the nightstand, he knew if he opened the drawer-   
**No.**  
 _No._

 _Breathe. Find Valjean. Where is Valjean?_  
Not here. He is safe. He is safe, and I will drown.   
**No.**   
No. I am safe also. I am safe, and I am here, and I _refuse to think about the nightstand and the barricade and-_  
No.   
I am safe. Valjean. _Where is Valjean?_

Fog closed around his vision. Everything was unfocused, _underwater._  
It would be so easy t-  
 _No._ **No.**   
_Not now. Not after he had come so far._

 _His name was Ferenc Astruc. He was alive. He was past any thoughts._  
He… was. Past any thoughts.   
**No.**

He found himself speaking.  
“... Valjean?”  
No reply. _Merde._  
Louder, then-   
“Valjean?”  
He fumbled for something, anything, _just as long as Valjean could hear-_  
And an empty mug fell from his nightstand and shattered on the floor. 

Javert flinched.   
His breathing came shallower than before.   
His eyes were glued on the pieces of mug.   
_No. no, you are fine. I am fine. It is fine._

And then the door opened, and Valjean was walking in.   
“-vert? Javert-”  
“Jean? You’re here…”  
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m here. Can you breathe right now?”  
“Ah- a bit- on- on the floor-”  
“Oh! Oh… that’s fine, that’s fine. In for 8?”  
 _Valjean tapped out the beats on Javert’s arm._  
“Hold for 8?”  
 _Eight taps on Javert’s arm._  
“Out for 8.”

“Jean?”  
“Yes?’  
“In- Montreuil- Jean, the factory closed. After-”  
“...Oh.”  
“And- and the schools closed down, and the orphanage fell apart, and it was _all my fault.”_

Javert barked out a horrible, wretched laugh. His eyes were as cold and sharp as steel.   
_“It was my fault. I did that. Do you see? It was all my doing.”_

Valjean turned away, closing his eyes. His shoulders shook.   
Javert growled, a rough and choked sound.   
_“Valjean.”_  
Valjean flinched.  
 _“Look at me.”_

Valjean, as if forced by some invisible power, turned to Javert. 

Javert’s hands twitched, almost in a shaking motion. With a great deal of effort, he forced them still.   
Valjean watched silently. 

Valjean put his hands on Javert’s biceps.   
Javert tensed like a cornered animal. His eyes were fearful and angry and everything Valjean had not seen in them in months. They flitted around Valjean’s face, searching, as he leaned away.  
Valjean moved a hand down, wanting to clasp Javert’s hand, but stopped at his flinch. 

“Javert-”  
“The- the mug. It- Valjean, it is broken.”  
“Yes.”  
“It broke.”  
“Yes, love.”  
And there it was, that horrible snarl again.   
_“You have no right. You have no right to call me that. Je vous ai détruit. J’ai détruit tout ce que vous avez fait. Kill me. Hate me, even. But I have no righ-”_

Valjean drew back at the use of the formal.   
“Javert-”  
 _“Valjean?”_  
“... do not call me that.”  
 _“What would you rather be called? You are pardoned, you are a free man; there is nothing else to call you. I am an object of destruction. Not of healing. Not of love.”  
“Mon cher._ Do you not remember? Do you not remember when you stayed up all night to make sure I drank all the broth you’d made, even though I could barely lift the spoon? When you taught me the lyrics to that song-”  
 _“If you sing even a single verse-”_  
“Because I did not know it, and you did not want me to feel unwelcome? Three days ago, when you held me during-?”  
“Yes. I remember. That does not negate-”  
“No. It does not. But you have grown. And look, love- you are no longer shaking.”  
“... oh.”  
“I know you will not believe it. I know sometimes your mind will return to the darkest corners. But the Javert of two years ago would not have let me hold him and tell him of his own kindness.”  
“It is not… _kindness.”_  
“I know, _mazal._ I know.”

“V- ah- Val-”  
 _“Javert.”_  
“...Jean.”

The name sounded strange on his tongue.   
Valjean blinked in surprise.   
He realized: he had not said it in its usual inflection.   
It was rougher, somehow, rawer. 

“I… I apologize. _Je-”_  
“Javert?”  
“Yes?”  
“Would you let me hold you?”  
“You are much too warm. I will roast.”  
Valjean laughed.   
“Is that a sacrifice you are willing to make?”  
“What, enduring the warmth of an oven in exchange for you?”  
“Yes.”  
“...Let me do something, first. This mug...”  
“Of course, love.”

_And if Valjean noticed Javert’s use of the informal, he said nothing._

_And after, once a day would be spent in words of comfort and words of healing, and once the morning dawned soft and golden, if Javert walked down to the shore and threw something glinting and metal (unyielding and sharp as his glare once was) into the ocean, no one had to know._

_And if Valjean watched from beside him, watching the weight on Javert’s shoulders lessen as he threw the past into the ocean, and if he took Javert’s hand then, smiling, well- no one had to know._

_And the past would still haunt them, as it does us all. But it’s easier to bear, with your beloved at your side._

**Author's Note:**

> yeah, uh- sorry
> 
> * looks at every les mis character ever * "it's free therapy"


End file.
